


RID-JID

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea





	RID-JID

“You’re a Dear, Thoughtful Husband-“ The tag line arrested my attention as I browsed the morning paper, one morning in early December. I placed my tea cup down and smiled at the advert. A strong, handsome chap was leaning over an ironing board upon which a pretty girl perched, gazing admiringly into his eyes. A bow was tied around one of the table’s legs, and a ball of mistletoe hung between them.

Jeeves wouldn’t let me have mistletoe. Perhaps I should explain the circs. at hand : some time ago, I became aware that the feelings of warmth I nursed in my bosom for Jeeves, my man, were more than mere friendly affection, and over time they became quite warm indeed, making every drop of the Wooster blood hot , every dashed nerve seared with their heat. Jeeves, of course, knew just what to do, and took the young master in hand. There are times, you see, when the gratitude I feel that he would give himself to someone like me is so strong that I feel myself shake, and when his arms steady me- well. I swear to myself that I’ll do all that I can to make his life easy, and pleasurable, and all that it could be. I know that I am no match for his greatness, but I do what I can for his sake.

Jeeves doesn’t care for Christmas. He never says a word against it, of course, but I can tell, in the rummy tone of his voice, in the fraction of an inch his eyebrow arches, that it goes a bit beyond preferring to spend the holiday someplace warm. Since the second year that he came to me, he’s persuaded me to head to a warmer locale as soon as the last of the wrapping paper is shredded. That’s not to say that he doesn’t indulge me, of course. Sometime mid December, the flat grows a wreath on the door, and charming bits of greenery and ribbon appear in the vases. I didn’t think he’d be quite so ruffled by the mistletoe, though. Having harbored daydreams of stealing kisses in the doorway made me smile, but Jeeves, ever practical, pointed out that it was not wise to let visitors’ minds wander to the purpose of such an object in a bachelor apartment, or, and this is a rather sinister thought, that some beazel might think it to be something I’d set out especially for her.

Of course Jeeves was right, as usual, yet I really had wanted that mistletoe. I gazed back at the happy couple in the advert.

“You’re always seeking some way to make my work lighter and easier. And this RID-JID Ironing Table will help wonderfully. I’ve wanted one for months. It not only makes my Christmas happy but my ironing will never be a task any more.

“And it’s so strong, and so convenient. It can’t creep or crawl, and never has to be lifted to put on and take off circular garments.”

Knowing nothing of ironing tables except their general appearance, enough to say ‘aha! There it is!’ in a room full of tables, I was intrigued. Cannot wiggle, wabble, jiggle, slip, or slide, the caption declared. Once certainly doesn’t want an ironing table to do that, I’m sure, what with the iron being so hot. I am also rather sure that that was the moment I decided to purchase one. The truth is, I rather fancied the thought of being a Dear, Thoughtful Husband. It’s a rum thing, to throw your lot in with another chap, because you have to get used to the fact that life isn’t as simple as you’d thought it might be when you thought you’d wind up with some filly. Jeeves is strong, smart, and fine, and there is no greater protector in the world. When he holds me, I am safe, and to myself, I think of him as husband, and yet he keeps our home better than any of my chums' wives could. Nothing is beyond Jeeves in matters domestic, and his skills are envied from New York to London. When I watch him flit about, or hear him praised, I feel a surge of possessive pride, and to myself, I call him my wife, mine alone.

Would Jeeves ever feel pride such as that? I wouldn’t be much of a wife, he knows I can’t manage on my own, even. Yet, husband- there, I might stand a chance. He might regard me and think that I’m a fine figure of a man, a good provider, at the very least, a man who loves him, quite desperately. Yes, I think perhaps that is all that he sees, the desperate love in my expression; yet adverts are a rum thing indeed, for I purchased the table fully imagining the love light in his eyes gazing upon me as his Dear, Thoughtful Husband like the girl in the picture.

I was in good spirits when the day before Christmas Eve finally arrived. In the morning, Jeeves and I would drive to Brinkley Court for the usual festivities, and depart for the French Riviera in time for the new year. Tonight, however, was what I wanted most, our evening alone together. I had told everyone I knew that I had expected to leave the Metrop this morning, so that we would remain undisturbed. I’d never spent Christmas in love before, and I wanted to snuggle up beside the hearth and contemplate the miracle, so to speak.

I rushed to the door as Jeeves arrived, his shopping basket full of chestnuts, chocolates, and other festive things. I was as excited as I ever was as a child, and the corner of his lip quirked, just a bit, enough to make me compose myself, even as I waited impatiently for him to hang his hat so that I could kiss him and explore the depths of the basket. My fingers brushed against something soft, and I fished out a package tied in bright satin ribbon.

“It is for you, sir.” Jeeves said, with the faintest smile that only I ever get to see.

“Oh, my.” I breathed, sitting on the edge of the chesterfield and admiring the flawless wrapping. “Should I , er, now?”

“Of course, sir.” He replied.

I peeled back the paper and felt my heart leap a bit as I caught sight of a bit of sky blue silk. Delicate silver and lavender threads were woven into the fabric, giving it a barely noticeable sheen.

“Jeeves… This is the tie I wanted!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The one you said was gaudy and unrefined. You said I’d look like I was on stage.”

“Yes, sir. It was necessary to deter you from purchasing the item. It is an unusual hue, one that makes your eyes shine in a splendid manner.”

The compliment made me swell with pride. “Well! It’s wonderful, Jeeves, just what I wanted. I’ll keep it for France.” I promised, kissing him soundly. “I have something for you, as well, old thing.” I rose to my feet and took his hands in mine, leading him to the kitchen. There it stood, the top model RID-JID Ironing Table in all its glory, complete with red bow around its leg.

Jeeves is a hard fellow to read, but I have a bit of practice in these matters, and there was a certain thingness in his eyes that set off alarm bells in my head, even as he replied something that may have been “very good, sir.” or something to that effect. It was an awful few seconds in which I realized my bloomer. I felt very much the way Bingo must have felt the time he gave Mrs. Bingo that baby pram for her birthday, to a rather chilly reception.

“I thought it would be easier for you.” I said, shyly, leaning against the table. “You do so much for me, love.” I felt sheepish, not at all like a Dear, Thoughtful Husband.

“It is a very nice ironing table, sir.” He replied, moving closer. His arms encircled my waist and his palm rested against the small of my back. He leaned in for a kiss, which I enjoyed thoroughly, even without the mistletoe and adoring gaze. The more I thought of it, the more absurd the idea became, anyway. Jeeves was no dainty thing to perch on an ironing table. He held me to him as though I were light as a pillow. “Serving you is not troublesome, sir.” He assured me.

I felt the thin end of the table prodding between my legs, where I’d backed against it during his kiss. It was unexpected, yet pleasant, the rounded edge grazing my sensitive bits through the layers of fabric, as Jeeves pressed close against me in the front. I rocked back against it again, just once, and Jeeves smiled in that way that he has when he’s discovered a weakness in the y.m. His hands slipped lower, cupping my bum so that he could rock me back and forth, the edge of the table teasing me.

“Jeeves.” I began, distracting myself from the slightly embarrassing situation I’d initiated, “Why don’t you like Christmas? I mean, I don’t want to pry if it’s a tragic tale, but you know that you can always tell me, what?” I bit my lip as his strong hands glided me over the rounded edge once more, keeping my breathing even, all the while hoping he wouldn’t cite a history of terrible gifts as his reason to dislike the season so.

“It is merely a personal feeling, sir.” He replied. “Servants do not spend Christmas with their families. The Christmas season necessitates an enormous amount of planning and work on our behalf. Though no one could deny the beauty of the festivities, we are just as glad to see them end.”

“Oh.” I replied, suddenly feeling rather selfish for not having thought of that before. “Did you- I mean, you should see your family. If you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.”

He merely shook his head. “My place is with you, sir. Especially now.” He placed me onto the table to free his hands, and kissed me. I draped my arms around his neck to pull him close, and he let me. Soon, I found myself splayed back against the table, my legs straddling the sides. Jeeves looked down on me with a hungry gleam in his eyes, and I suppressed a shiver. “Don’t.” he whispered, hoarsely, as I made a motion to sit up. His fingers trailed down my sides, and up my thighs. I held my breath as he rubbed circles across the tip of my cock, blunted through the fabric. “Beautiful.” He whispered, as I arched my back into his touch.

I was expecting things to escalate, but Jeeves was taking his jolly sweet time, and I whimpered in protest. “Jeeves, let me down so I can touch you.” I sighed. In response, he only graced me with that almost-smile, and leaned forward to grind his hardness into my own. The table creaked under us, but, to be fair, it did not creep or crawl. It did not wiggle, wabble, jiggle, slip, or slide. I gripped his coat tightly, and rutted, with one leg clutching his waist to me. It was not enough. I pulled him to me with both legs, and quickened my pace, slamming my hips into him, brought back to my senses only by a sickly, groaning noise and the feeling of my heart being in the air as I was rapidly falling to the floor. Jeeves’ hands clutched me, catching me inches above the ruined remains of the table.

“Sir, are you unharmed?” his hair was mussed, his cheeks flushed with passion, and yet, I could see his stiff, formal self returning. I had banged my side, but I wasn’t about to complain about that at a time like this.

“Spiffing, old thing.” I gasped, rolling back into his arms. I had not had my fill of him, nor he of me. I pulled him into a rough kiss, and he soon had me pinned against the cold, smooth linoleum of the floor, his fingers hastily fumbling at my flies. He pulled my prick free, and gave it an encouraging squeeze, letting it go for a moment as he freed his own, a sight I shall never tire of. Somehow, it was arranged that our bare skin was pressed close, in just the right way, and I thrust wildly, trapped between the weight of my man and the solid floor, relishing the flushed heat of his flesh, shivering when he shifted so that I grated against rough tweed or carved buttons instead. The low moan that escaped him sent me over the edge- is there any sound more primal, more divine? And soon, all too soon, I was spent, panting under him, resting my weary forehead against the cool tile. He did not move, but rested atop me as I stroked back his damp hair.

Some long, peaceful moments passed before I spoke. “Tomorrow, Jeeves, on our way to Aunt Dahlia’s, we could go to that book seller you like so much. You could pick out anything you’d like.”

His eyes were soft and adoring as he gazed at me, lovelier than any advert could capture. “Thank you, sir.” He whispered, and held me tight.

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